I vaguely recalled the taste of the
widow's tincture, only this was vastly stronger, and when I looked at
Hans through bleary eyes, I asked, “what was that I just drank?”

“The widow's tincture,” said Hans,
“and I put in about half again as much as I would give a widow of
Anna's size.”

Anna looked at Hans, then shook her
head, saying, “no, Hans. Two drops...”

“That is for babies,” said Hans.
“Now I expect him to be doing better in about ten min...”

The abrupt shift in 'tense' as the
stuff began working was mind-sundering, for both Hans and Anna froze
in mid-sentence. Hans' previous voice became a faintly vibrating
subaudible rumble, and as my eyes seemed to open wider slightly –
the room became noticeably brighter in the space of what seemed
seconds – I took 'inventory'.

The abnormal clarity of my thoughts
was of such monumental magnitude that I looked calmly at what was on
my plate, and as I began eating it with due deliberation, I thought,
“this stuff is weird. It feels just like what I was given in the
hospital before surgery, only that didn't affect my sense of time
like this does. Everyone – and everything – seems frozen
in time.”

I then noted the limply relaxed
feeling of my limbs, as well as a sense of growing sleepiness. The
word 'calm' seemed to hang in the air and overshadow my mind. The
effects of the tincture were still increasing, even as I continued
eating, and I noticed I was no longer bothered by anything
whatsoever, even the recollection of those uncommonly smelly
'tailors'.

As I finished my three herring
fillets, I looked up to see mobile walls and changing corners, then
as I stood, I noted I seemed to be listing to the right by at least
thirty degrees. I wobbled to the soaking bucket, put my dishes in
with exaggerated care, then turned around to wobble past the
billowing light-blooming brass-encased flowers that were now brighter
than my recollection of the sun.

The stairs were wiggling side to side
as if a strange species of escalator, and as I walked up them, I
noted I was leaning back at nearly a forty-five degree angle. I was
surprised I didn't fall down, and only when I came to the top and
nearly pitched forward onto my face did I realize the escalator was
not working. I made a tight and wobbly turn to the left, then
another such turn, and saw my landing space ahead and to my left. I
brought down the flaps, then the landing gear, and as I reduced power
to the howling engines, I saw the sun burn itself out as it tumbled
brick-like out of the sky. I would need to land in darkness, and as
the engines continued their tormenting screams, I could see myself
falling down like a bomb out of the sky. I faced my inevitable end
with equanimity, even as the passengers screamed like maniacs and the
crash-alarm blared out its mule-like hoarse braying challenge. I was
going to crash, and now, I was asleep – or more accurately, dead to
the world and its witches.

Awakening was slow the next morning,
and as I rose up majestic like a missile about to be launched, I
noted an unusually bright room, phenomenal hearing, wiggly walls, and
corners that could not make up their minds as to their angles. Those
changed constantly, such that the room was not the same shape from
one second to another, and the distorted aspect of all I saw made for
a room that seemed bent, twisted, and...

Or was it my mind that was bent and
twisted? I thought to stand up, and then saw that I was
standing – on the ceiling. I leaped off, then collided with
my bed and fell in a crumpled heap.

I carefully crawled out of bed, then
saw that my clothing had miraculously removed itself. It had folded
itself neatly by my bed, and when I reached for my trousers, they
came up like a peeved cobra and hissed at me.

“Now, now, Alger,” I said.
“Don't play those games with me.”

To my surprise, my trousers dropped
limply and I was able to stuff my legs in them. While I only saw two
legs, I had the impression I was missing a leg; I normally had three,
just like a strange cartoon I had drawn long ago as a child.

The room steadily twisted more as I
put on the balance of my clothing, and when I looked up slightly, the
ceiling dipped down and tried to kiss my forehead while it wiggled
but inches from my face. I then looked down at the floor.

The floor was mobile, with thick and
rumbling waves spraying gravel, nuts – mostly Brazil nuts, but I
saw several common hexagonal items and a castellated nut as well –
and brass bushings, with an occasional bronze-headed hammer flipping
end-over-end past my head. There was but one trouble with the floor,
however.

It seemed fifty feet away.

As I watched, however, it came
steadily closer, then formed bulging rounded lumps and hollows that
looked remarkably like great toothless mouths frozen in the act of
yawning. I then assayed standing, realized I was standing already,
and began walking toward the doorway.

I was arrested by the wall to my left,
however, for I was stopped by a clothing peg. The thing had
grown monstrously – it was most of the way across the room, and was
twisting like a hyperactive snake – and the grain of the wood now
stood up from its background and seemed to faintly vibrate its dark
and secretive meaning.

“Wonderful,”
I thought. “I've never heard of a hallucinogenic sedative before,
much less had one, and 'weird' doesn't come close to describing the
effects of this stuff.”

The
clothing peg now rapidly shrank back to near its normal length, and
as I looked at it, I saw that it had somehow become bright green. It
was attempting to tie itself into a pretzel knot, and as I gathered
up my supplies – they were trying to escape, and I needed to not
merely gather them, but catch and subdue them as well – I wondered
what I would be able to do today. I was in no shape to eat,
much less work.

I found the
doorway, which seemed lined with mirrors, then came out of it and
turned into the hallway. This last demanded substantial listing
toward the right so as to complete the turn, and then when I saw the
escalator from last night, I noted it was moving normally – for an
escalator. It was not moving sideways.

While the
stairs looked to be moving, I found them to be stationary when I
actually stepped on them – or at least, the first two were
stationary. Those afterward tried to wiggle out from under my feet,
while the mobile and distorted-looking stairwell was enough to cause
me to feel afraid – or rather, had I not been so 'sedated', I would
have felt afraid.

Not only
did I not feel worried, I did not feel 'crazy' either, and my mental
clarity and focus was hard to believe, even as I came to the end of
the stairs and wobbled out of the stairwell toward the kitchen.
Again, I needed to really lean into the turn, and when I came to the
kitchen proper, I saw a student's lantern being loaded with a candle.
Anna was loading the thing, and when I came to a stool, I checked to
see that it was indeed a stool, and that it was on the floor. I sat
on it, half thinking it might be on the ceiling, then once I had sat
down fully, I said under my breath the following:

“Thank
God I sat down without falling on the floor or the ceiling.”

“I told
him about how you were likely to be affected,” said Anna, “and
now you look like you got into the Geneva.”

“Do I
sound impaired?” I asked,

“That was
why I said that,” said Anna, “and this candle does not wish to go
in, for some reason. Can you look at it?”

Anna handed
me both candle and lantern, and I carefully inserted the candle. It
went in with such shocking ease I burped.

“I
thought so,” said Anna. “Are you all right?”

“Uh, I'm
not certain,” I said. “I slept much better than is usual for me.
Am I sick to sleep like that?”

“I doubt
it,” said Anna, as she lit the lantern. “Hans is in the basement
checking on something, and we should have breakfast soon. I just got
up.”

I sat down,
and then noticed the bareness of the table. As I wondered what to
do, I recalled the need for paper, and thought to ask about it.

“Did
either of you get the paper?” I asked.

“That and
a great deal more,” said Anna. “The paper should be on your
bench, along with some more supplies for drawing.”

I stood up
and dodged a herd of frisky stools, then found not merely my bench,
but also a sizable cloth bag. Looking inside showed not merely my
original ledger, but also the other one that had been brought, and
along with the two ledgers, I found a slim stack of what looked like
grainy and somewhat mottled paper. Bringing the stuff back to the
table had Anna helping me remove the stuff from the bag.

“I asked
for at least five sheets,” she said, “but given who I talked to,
I might well have gotten more.”

“Who did
you talk to?” I asked.

“The
librarian,” she said.

“A
library?” I asked.

“There
isn't enough to have someone who just looks after books and
manuscripts,” said Anna. “He does that, keeps track of all the
older documents, does what printing that needs doing, secures
printing supplies...”

“And he
should be getting a fresh supply of ink soon,” said Hans, “as I
looked at that stuff, and suggested he bury it in the manure pile and
get some from Korn.”

Hans then
came around to look at me, then said sheepishly, “you were right,
Anna. He looks like I dosed him with three tubes of the bull
formula, and not one and a half of the widow's stuff.”

Hans
paused, then said, “and it should have worn off some, too.”

“Hans,
that stuff worked much faster than anyone I've ever seen,” said
Anna, “and then, he ate all of those herring before I could count
to two, and went upstairs before I could count two more.”

As the
plates were set out, I wondered how I was going to manage to eat, as
they were moving all over the top of the table. I knew I could talk
– my tongue was not in a knot, and I felt it carefully with
my hands to make certain, which resulted in Anna looking at Hans and
shaking her head – and after eating two slices of bread, I said,
“this is much less bothersome than beer.”

“It is?”
asked Anna. “Why were you feeling your tongue, then?”

“Beer
usually ties my tongue in a knot,” I said, “and I wanted to be
certain this stuff didn't do the same.”

“Yes, and
now what happened when it began working?” asked Hans.

“Everyone
stopped moving completely,” I said, “and I felt so relaxed I
wondered if I could move at first.”

“Is that
still the case?” asked Anna.

“You both
seem a bit slow for moving,” I said, “and the walls are still
really strange, the corners are moving, and I still feel very
calm and relaxed.”

“You look
like you got into the Geneva,” said Hans. “Anna was right, you
need a dose for a baby. Now what is it like?”

“Geneva
is fine topically, but the smell turns my stomach, and forget tasting
it,” I said. “I feel very calm, abnormally clear-headed, the
confusion I usually feel is completely gone, and I feel very
relaxed.”

“Yes, and
you look a lot better,” said Hans. “I think you need to take
that stuff daily, though in smaller amounts. Did you rest good?”

“I slept
much better than is usual for me,” I said. “I doubt I rest well,
especially given how many witches seem to be in the area.”

I took out
one of the pieces of paper, then found a pencil. I looked carefully
at what I had fetched, then said, “speaking of witches, I know
exactly where that one particular witch-hole is hiding. I can
draw you a map to show where everything is.”

“Which
one is this?” asked Hans.

“The one
with the bull,” I said, as I began drawing and 'looking' – and
within moments, my sketch reflected what I was seeing. I also was
wondering if I was indulging in sorcery.

“Now you
are less worried, and are not distracted,” said the soft voice, “so
you can look much better. Worry and distraction do not help with
being self-controlled and alert.”

“Is this
what that means?” I thought.

While there
was no answer of a specific nature, my sketch grew apace, and as it
did, I became aware of just how distracted and fearful I
normally was – and how I'd had much of this information some time
ago and had been 'filling in the holes' in some mysterious fashion
for weeks past. I had been too fearful of censure, witches, thugs,
and other things to think about anything other than staying out of
trouble, and too distracted – that was a given, I now
realized; I was abnormally distractable – to try to put down
the information in a usable format. I now could, and with an
abnormally clear head...

“I
normally don't think this clearly, either,” I thought, “and it
isn't just the demands and stresses of life. There's something else
happening on top of those things, and I do not know what it
is.”

Within
perhaps ten minutes, I had a decent map drawn, and I showed the thing
to Anna first, then Hans, and as I did, I noted how strange I felt –
and how bothered I was by feeling as I did.

“This is
a very good map,” said Anna. “What are these marks here?”

“Those
little square boxes with the letter 'k' – it means Kofen –
indicate where current coven members are, while these labeled with
's' indicate people on the waiting list.” I then pointed at one of
the 'k' houses, and said, “the person living there is out looking
for things right now, and he's using a pointed stick. He thinks the
forked portion helps him see better, but he is, uh... He's looking
for scrap metal?”

My voice
indicated questioning and disbelief, especially as this person wasn't
'dowsing', but using the forked piece of wood as a type of
'magnifier', and he was looking through the forked portion while
chanting a rune-curse.

“Now that
is strange,” said Hans. “Witches do not go looking for scrap
metal.”

“This is
not ordinary scrap metal,” I said, “but some kind of an
old piece of pipe, that, uh, went to a rocket.”

“That
makes more sense,” said Hans, as he sipped from a mug. His
'oblivious' voice made me wonder for a moment, at least until he
said, “now why would a witch want parts to a rocket?”

“This
rocket was really old, really big, and really, uh, cursed,”
I said. “The witch thinks his power increases with every such
cursed object he finds. While that isn't true, those lying
spirits speak of it as being so, and most witches believe such lies
avidly.”

“What is
this part here?” asked Anna. “The one labeled 'w'?”

“That is
the, uh, doom-room,” I said. “They have the ceremonies in
there. Here, let me indicate the precise nature of the doorway...
'under handbreadth of leaves, ten paces from knife-marked tree and
five from big gray rock'. There, that should help them find it.”

“So you
have found the witch-hole,” said Hans. “They have had no luck
finding anything over that way since that day we dropped off that
man. Now, have they done much in that place lately?”

“It's
been shut down since that time,” I said, “and they've been
curtailing those activities in that area.”

“Have
they quit?” asked Hans.

“Not
really,” I said. “They lost three important members, which meant
they had to initiate three supplicants, or rather, get them ready to
be initiated. Then, they were rebuilding the wreckage when those
three houses burned, and finally, the usual coven-business proceeded
as though little had happened.”

“What is
this of business?” asked Hans.

“What
witches do to get money, supplies, and things witches want,” I
said, “including, in this case at the least, swine. They
have a hidden swine-pen next to that witch-hole.”

I paused
for a moment, then said, “now why would witches want to have
those stinkers nearby? Do they enjoy roast pork on the table?”

“Not much
is known about pigs, other than witches like those things,” said
Hans. “Is there more?”

“Here is
a hidden datramonium patch,” I said, “and in this shed is jugged
datramonium extract and distillate – oh, and not all of it's the
common type. They have at least ten jugs of that really stinky
stuff.”

Hans
chortled with glee, then said, “yes, that is good. I'm about done
with deodorizing the stuff in town, and I could use more light
distillate.”

“Oh, for
each jug of that smelly stuff, there are two or three jugs of heavy
distillate – and that's the stuff in that shed,” I said.
“Each one of these people has a firebomb masquerading as a lantern,
and 'well-dried' heavy distillate to fuel it.”

I paused
for a moment, then asked, “now why would witches hoard
powder and lead?”

“Those
black-dressed people like fowling pieces,” said Hans, “so...”

“These
people only wear black when they're in that stinky room or out
chasing down sacrifices,” I said. “The only really good reason
they might want that much of the stuff is to deny it to those
with legitimate uses.”

Anna looked
at me, then muttered something about witches and misers.

“Yes?”
I asked. “These people are working on becoming misers,
dear. Nearly every one of them has a lot more money than they
let on, and they seem fairly prosperous compared to those around
them.”

I paused,
then said, “I have no idea what people are going to do with that
much powder and lead, as I can see two knee-high kegs, a third one
that's as big as some empty ones Willem has, and four fairly nice
wooden boxes full of lead ingots. They have to have eight hundred
pounds of lead, if not more, as they've been hoarding the stuff for
quite some time.”

Hans
gasped, then said, “I think you might be right, as that is enough
lead...”

“Enough
to drive up the price a fair amount locally, you mean,” I said.
“Come to think of it, I do have an idea.”

“Yes, and
what is that?” asked Hans.

“The
witches buy as much of such critical supplies as they can,” I said,
“and then hoard them until periods of great scarcity, when they
sell them to the highest bidder. They might conceivably make two
guilders for each guilder they spend buying the stuff if they're
careful that way.”

Yet while
my 'scheme' did make sense, I somehow had trouble seeing most witches
doing so. I could see Georg doing so, had he the inclination
– he didn't – or the resources, and perhaps some of those
black-dressed thugs doing so, but the local witches were hoarding
such supplies for a very different reason.

“And here
is where the dynamite is hid,” I said, as I pointed to the house
marked with a 'd'.

“You
don't say,” said Hans. “Can you see what type it is?”

“It's in
a dark varnished wooden box about so big” – here, I indicated
with my hands the roughly twelve by twelve by twenty-four sized box –
“with brass sheet corners, and copper or bronze nails. Then, it
has a black-painted label, this being 'dynamite, five parts oil, two
parts wood-dust, three parts niter. Use Jakob's Caps and Fuse'.”

“That is
a weaker grade of mining dynamite, and an off-brand, too,” said
Hans.

“That
stuff in the haystack?” I asked.

“That
would most likely have six or seven parts of oil to one of each of
the others,” said Hans. “That weaker stuff will take months to
go bad in this weather. Real mining dynamite, like that stick you
found, would go bad faster, but the worst one is the one with the
club-wielding giant on the box.”

“Club-wielding
giant?” I asked.

“That
stuff is made bad,” said Hans, “and it drips oil the day
it is made. It goes bad in a hurry. I have seen it once, and the
popping scared me bad.”

“Popping?”
I asked.

“That is
when the oil drips off and hits the ground,” said Hans. “I
tossed that stick, and it exploded when it hit. If it wasn't so
dangerous to use, I would throw it at swine.”

“Figures,
now those northern people carry dynamite around with them,” I
thought, “and Hans complains how dangerous it is. Maybe being
dense like some of them are likely to be has advantages.”

After
finishing breakfast – I got two slices for my bread-bag, and
checked over the map before letting Hans have it – I loaded up my
'bag of tricks' and my other things, then went to work. The
'relaxed' feeling would have made me nervous had I been able to feel
that way, but feeling nervous was beyond my capacity.

I was
emboldened by my ability to start the fires without setting myself
alight, but only when the others had come in and begun doing their
respective jobs did I think to try my hand at something more
difficult than getting the forges and furnace lit.

I began to
assemble one of the distilling coppers that I had been working on,
and within moments, I soon ignored the strange walls and peculiar
corners, for I was concentrating much better than was usual for me.
Even when I began raising the pan portions of the stripper plates
themselves, I noted that my 'rhythm' was more even, and the blows of
the hammer overlapped perfectly.

I was now
working a bit closer to a forge than normally, as I would tong the
plates into the forge, let them set, dunk them into the forge-bucket,
and then leave them on the edge of the forge proper to dry.

This
continued throughout the whole of the first part of the day, during
which time I'd finished all three distilleries, sharpened a number of
knives, raised three saucepans, trimmed a number of pieces of copper
to finished size, checked a small pile of billets, and piled the
rework pieces in another pile.

“Now what
gives with separating those things like that?” asked Georg.

“Those
need rework,” I said, as I pointed to the 'bad' ones. “Were I
closer to having this one thing done, I would just pile them up for
melting, but that's not going to happen within the next week.”

“What
would melting do?” asked Georg.

“First,
we would have more 'good' metal with a lot less work,” I
said, “and secondly, that good metal would be much better.”

I paused,
then said, “I hope I do not sound drunk.”

“Why is
that?” asked Georg.

“I had my
fitting yesterday,” I said, “and those people were really stinky
and ill-mannered, and that didn't help my coping with being
unclothed. I was frightened out of my mind by the whole thing, and I
was dosed with this one tincture...”

“Is this
the tincture normally given to widows?” asked Georg. “If it is,
then I have a very good idea as to what it is like, as I've had it
before – and no, you don't sound drunk.”

Georg
paused, then said, “you aren't nearly as tense, either. Normally,
I get nervous just watching you, and I should not be surprised, given
all of those witches that want you dead. You often seem to be
listening for them, and you act as if you expected three Iron Pigs to
crash into the shop.”

I was still
feeling 'impaired' when I left for home – I left when the others
did – and while I felt less tired than usually, I knew that was but
the seeming. I had spoken of needing a week or more to work a full
day, and while I had meant my normal day, the reality was I
was having difficulty working at my accustomed pace for the shop's
day – or so I thought when I came home. Anna was stirring
something in the kitchen, and Hans was gone.

“Uh, the
map?” I asked.

“Hans
took that to the Public House after you left,” said Anna, “and
they all left for that place within an hour. He should be back
soon.”

“I hope
he doesn't get hurt,” I said, as I went upstairs to fetch clean
clothing.

While I
hadn't been able to work as long or as hard as normally, I had been
able to get dirty just the same, and after bathing, I began working
on the steam engine. I was now at the final-fitting stage, where I
needed to actually bring the critical parts to their final sizes.
This involved careful reaming, filing, and fitting, as well as
tapping holes – and, after an hour or so, trial assemblies of
various portions of the engine. These last had Anna watching me as
often as she could manage.

“That
thing looks strange,” she said. “What is it?”

“A steam
engine,” I said. “I'll need to make a boiler able to handle a
decent amount of pressure and some other parts before I try it.”

“Is that
why these patterns came recently?” asked Anna.

“Which
patterns?” I asked.

“One
looks like a bad nightmare,” said Anna, “while the others look to
make a strange box, and then the last few patterns I cannot figure
out to save my life, even if I can figure out why they bring a lot of
those things here and not to the shop.”

“Uh,
why?” I asked.

“Some of
this stuff is so strange for looks that even Georg might get the
wrong ideas,” said Anna. “I've spent enough time in the fourth
kingdom to know about a lot of things that people around here don't
know of, so I can at least ask questions. We both know how those
people tend to be about new things.”

“Uh, they
ask questions now,” I said.

“Yes,
about the simpler things,” said Anna. “What you are
working on there looks as complicated as a navigating timer, and
there are few things well-known that are as complex and exacting.”

“I've
never worked on those, so I wouldn't know what they're like,” I
said. “I have worked on things like this ever since I was small.”

“How
small?” asked Anna.

“I was
eight or so,” I said. “Things like this are quite common there.”

Hans came
home about half an hour later, or so I guessed, and as I carefully
tried the fit of one of the lower connecting rods on the crankpin, he
came to look at what I was doing.

“They are
still finding all of those places on the map,” said Hans, “and I
brought home a good amount of that distillate.”

“Lead?”
I asked. “Powder?”

“I have
some of each coming,” said Hans. “They found more of both of
those things in each of those houses, as well as a lot of other
things.”

“Did
those witches get caught?” asked Anna from the kitchen.

While Hans
wasn't able to answer that question in a single sentence – it took
several paragraphs uttered around stew, beer, and bread – he did
speak of a number of people being shot, and several of them escaping
in a hail of gunfire.

“I doubt
they got off easy with that many looking,” said Hans. “I dropped
two right off and drilled a third in the leg with the pistol.”

“Where in
the leg?” asked Anna.

“Up high,
where it bleeds good,” said Hans. “I doubt he went far.”

“Will
that group continue?” I asked.

“I doubt
it will do much in that place,” said Hans. “By the time I left,
there were five burn-piles in the area, most of those houses were
being ripped apart, and a lot of people were carting off things that
had gone missing over the years.”

“You mean
the witches were thieves?” I gasped.

“I am
surprised I did not find some things of mine in those houses,” said
Hans. “I saw entire rooms full of stuff that they had stolen, and
some of that stuff had been gone for many years.”

“Why
where they keeping it, though?” I asked. “Could they not dispose
of it?”

“I think
so,” said Hans. “If you are going to sell stolen things, you
need to take them a long ways from where you stole them, and then you
need to find people who are either desperate enough to take a chance,
or people who do not care if the things are stolen.”

“There
aren't many places like that up here,” said Anna. “The only
likely place I can think of is the third kingdom port, or maybe some
places in the second kingdom.”

“Uh, that
one second-hand store...”

I ceased
speaking, for while that location did handle 'hot'
merchandise, they were very picky about what and how much –
and much of what the witches had stolen weren't things that store
wished to 'fence'. More importantly, the witches had visited
that place with the things they could dispose of there – and over
the years, they had gotten a great deal of money that way.

“Then why
do they steal things that they cannot sell?” I thought. “Is
their goal causing trouble for others out of pure meanness?”

While the
illogic of that statement was profound, it also made sense in
a twisted sort of fashion, and after dinner, I resumed with my
fitting of the engine. I suspected it would take another evening or
two after tonight, and as I carefully reamed a tin-lined bearing
housing, I heard a tap at the door.

I came to
the door, then opened it unsuspectingly – and with a bounding rush,
someone leaped on me and drove me to the floor. I lay there in a
daze for a second, then as my eyes focused, I saw who it was.

That girl
was sitting on my stomach, and was reaching for my chest as if
infatuated. I thought this very amusing, and relished the attention.

“Now I
have you!” she squeaked. “I hope you like to be tickled!”

“Yes,
dear,” I said delightedly. “I do.”

“Now,
Sarah,” said Anna as she came from the kitchen. I could just hear
the knowing tone in her voice. “You might wish to wait on that
until later on, when you know him better.”

Sarah
leaped from on top of me, then seemed to 'float' down into the
basement. Hans came up a moment later.

“It seems
she went through that place a bit after I left,” said Hans, “and
they found several more of those witches.”

“How did
they turn up?” asked Anna.

“Only a
few of those things got away without being shot,” said Hans, “and
those were the most of them that were found. Then, two more were
hiding and tried to run for it, and they were shot, and then finally,
someone brought a pair of those white-eared dogs. She came to tell
us that.”

“She
jumped on him,” said Anna, “and wanted to tickle him silly. I
have no idea what has gotten into her, as she used to be more
serious.”

“Anna, I
like to be tickled,” I said, “and she...”

The odor of
flowers was strongly in the air, and I wanted to smell her some more.

“Does she
use things with flowers?” I asked.

“She
never was one for scent,” said Anna, “and how you are smelling
flowers is a mystery, as I cannot smell anything out of the ordinary.
I know she bathes a lot, and how she lives might be the cause of
it.”

“How is
it she lives?” I asked.

“She has
to move around a lot,” said Anna, “and while this time of year
means easy beds, the warmer parts of the year tend to be otherwise.”

I took
another tinned copper cup of beer with me to bed that evening, and
fell into a deep sleep upon consuming it. This time, I dreamed an
uncommonly strange dream.

I was lying
in a hospital bed somewhere, and if I went by the location, its
equipment, and the number of tubes inserted in my anatomy, I guessed
it to be intensive care. A woman dressed in white – she resembled
Anna to no small degree – came, and when I tried to speak, I found
I was not able to.

I was on a
ventilator of some kind, and felt unbelievably dizzy.

“You are
desperately ill,” she said, “and badly need to rest.”

Not only
did she look like Anna, she sounded like her and had similar
mannerisms, even when she began looking over the equipment. She
paused from her checking to say, “this is to help you rest, so that
you can endure life and not be so terribly ill. You will be taken
care of shortly.”

'Shortly'
was but minutes later, when I slept at the prompting of some drug or
combination of them – and then, to my surprise, I woke up in a
similar environment. I looked around carefully, and saw that I was
not connected to any equipment, even though I felt identical to when
I had been rendered unconscious.

I then sat
up easily, and as I did, I noticed what I was 'wearing'.

My entire
body was covered with soft white knit cloth that was comfortable to
wear and pleasant to the touch, while I wore a type of eyeware that
darkened automatically as I looked around. I then looked at my
hands, and thought it strange to have them well-padded with layers of
gloves – and stranger yet to have a phenomenal sense of
touch. I then carefully felt myself.

Instead of
the usual give I had when feeling my body, I now felt extremely firm,
and as I continued touching, I noted some light-blue cloth-covered
squares on my chest, abdomen, and left side.

“What has
happened to me?” I thought.

A soft
voice – it wasn't gender-neutral like the one I had heard for
years, this one was definitely female – said, “this is to
help you. Breathe deeply.”

I did so,
and my chest expanded with astonishing rapidity, then as abruptly
deflated. The voice spoke of continuing to do so, and with each such
deep and rapid breath, I became progressively more calm, relaxed,
capable, and attentive – and with the passing minutes, I noted a
pleasantly drowsy dizziness.

With
half-closed eyes, I now began looking more carefully at my
'clothing', and the first thing I noted was a thick cloth-covered
bundle of cables coming from the left side of my waist. This was
attached with a sizable knurled connector – nearly two inches
across – and next to it was a detached cap. On each side of my
waist were rubber-covered metal boxes that attached with a wide cloth
strap, while on my feet were some truly unusual 'shoes' of light blue
rubber and cloth. The number of small shiny metal buckles these
shoes had was astounding.

As I lay in
bed, I noticed not merely the dizziness, but also the rapidity of my
deep and effortless breathing. I was deaf, enjoying the absence of
auditory torment, and wondering what had happened to me.

“This is
a wearable intensive care environment,” said the soft female
voice, “and it is intended to keep you happy, healthy, and
productive. It is unspeakably comfortable, and that by intent. No
more bad dreams, insomnia, or trouble from that smelly woman to the
north.”

Awakening
from the peculiar dream was a mystery, and I did not speak of it. I
did speak of the lessening snowfall at the shop that morning while I
rammed up molds for bronze castings.

“Is it
normal for the snow to still fall this time of year?” I asked.

“It seems
about stopped,” said Georg. “Now I hope it does not rain, as
I've put an order in for more metal.”

“What
kind, pray tell?”

“That
haunted stuff, especially,” said Georg. “I put in an order some
time ago, and it didn't come up here, and the same for that better
common iron. I hope you can do something with the scrap they're
bringing from the third ditch.”

“I have
plans for it,” I said, “especially once I document it properly.
How much more has come?”

I needed to
go out front to examine the snow-dusted stuff during lunch-break, and
as I wandered around, I noted the highly variable nature of the plate
and weapons. The 'good' stuff was both rare and truly usable, even
if it was not close to the equipment I had stolen, while the various
grades of 'scrap metal' were progressively more common as the defects
increased. I picked up one of the 'worst' swords, possibly the worst
one I could find, and took the thing inside. I wanted to test it for
hardness.

While the
others looked on in seeming shock, I began testing the edge with my
files. I was more than a little surprised to learn the metal wasn't
the common 'butter' softness, but was a good deal harder, and only by
filing fairly deeply did I break through the case to reach softer
metal. Even there, it wasn't butter.

I tried
breaking the sword next, and here, I found a complete conundrum: it
wasn't at all brittle. Even with visible defects, the sword bent
instead of breaking, and as I hammered the thing straight, I said, “I
was misled. I thought these things were utterly worthless.”

“Aren't
they, though?” asked Johannes. “They look terrible.”

“You're
right, they do look terrible,” I said. “They also confirm
my suspicions about this metal. Try filing on this thing.”

Georg came,
brought a file, then put its edge on the blade. Two swipes, and he
began muttering, then said, “these have a better edge than most
knives I've seen. Are they brittle?”

“No, they
aren't,” I said. “They may do things worse than the common
around here, and they don't spend two minutes on appearance issues,
but when it comes to actually working... How many people get cut
with these?”

“I've
seen my share,” said Georg. “They might look terrible, but they
do cut.”

“Have
they?” I indicated Johannes and Gelbhaar.

Both of
them shook their heads to indicate 'no', then Gelbhaar said, “I
have been lucky, as I have not needed to go after the swine.”

“And
hence, all you have to go by is hearsay and superficial appearances,”
I said. “Supposedly my clothing was cut to pieces, and I acquired
a fair number of scars, some of which I've seen. Then, this was one
of the worst swords I have found so far. More than a few are
significantly better, as I suspect they rework these if a person
comes back in one piece with blooded weapons – and we all know what
happens with multiple weldings.”

“Now, why
don't I try a little experiment with this metal,” I said. “I'll
cut a piece off, forge-weld it and then cook it some, and then see
what happens. Given our reduced stock, if we can clean that stuff
up, it won't hurt our supplies of metal. Or will it?”

Cutting the
last four inches off of the sword in question proved another matter:
the metal was not merely riddled with slag, but also much tougher
than all save that 'haunted' steel, and when I had the piece off, I
put it in the forge and began heating it. For some reason, I had an
impression, and when I dredged up one of the off-cuts made with the
better-quality iron, I thought to forge-weld the two and homogenize
them carefully.

The forging
process took much longer than I recalled, with lengthy stays in among
the coals between the periods of welding due to my growing fatigue.
I was recovering slower than I thought I might, and by lunch, I had
welded the two metals three times – and each time, the billet had
sprayed slag madly.

I then
began forging the thing into a knife-blade, and once I had it to
shape – I thought to try one of those 'bowie' knives – I let it
cool slowly. It was time for my lunch, and as I joined the
others, I needed to answer questions.

“I've
seen those once or twice here,” I said, “and I thought to try
forging one to see if I could do it.”

“If it
comes good, then I can sell it,” said Georg. “Butchers
supposedly like those, and I know several butchers.”

After lunch
– three mugs of cider, both bread pieces, and several pieces of
dried 'peppered' meat – I began grinding the thing. As it was an
experiment, I didn't spend much time with smoothing. I knew the
usual pattern-welded stuff needed a smooth surface to avoid cracking.

“Why is
that one so rough?” asked Gelbhaar.

“I want
to see if it's as sensitive in heat-treating as the usual metal,” I
said. “The pattern-welded stuff tends to be that way, with that
'haunted' stuff being especially bad for cracking.”

Quenching
in oil followed by cleaning in lye gave a file-hard blade – as well
as a profound species of nausea – and after drawing the blade back
to a dark straw color, I thought to try breaking it with a hammer.

After
several hard blows, I was again exhausted, and the thing showed no
sign of either breaking or bending. I then handed it to Georg,
saying, “please, try to break this thing.”

He looked
at me, then said, “now why do I want to do that, and why is this
thing so rough?”

“That
blade is an experiment,” I said. “That stuff from Norden is a
lot better metal, so much so that even with poor processing,
it's a lot tougher than what we have – that, and it tends to be
much harder for a given carbon content.”

“What
does that mean?” he asked.

“It means
that even when they're banged out by careless lug-headed wretches
that have no eye for 'beauty',” I said, “the resulting weapons
actually work. I wish I could say that for ours –
they need good workmanship and a decent finish to avoid becoming
'wasters' during processing.”

“I am not
sure even doing that makes for decent swords,” said Georg. “The
ones I've seen tend to be more like knives that way than anything,
save for looks.”

I resumed
checking over the 'scrap metal' outside, and as I looked over the
various pieces, I moved those I'd examined to the side to indicate
they could be 'piled'. I managed to look over perhaps another ten
pieces before I began staggering, then I came inside to collapse on a
stool. There, I had to resume guzzling cider until I felt better.

At home, I
resumed fitting up the engine, and as I lapped the valves, I wondered
as to how readily I would cast the boiler pieces. I hoped we had
enough bronze to do so, as that too was beginning to run low.

The
engine was nearly finished by the time I went to bed, and the next
morning, I began ramming up the molds for the boiler parts. The 'bad
nightmare' parts – the water tubes – molded one per flask, and
the cores went in readily. I hoped there wouldn't be significant
'core-shift'.

Thankfully,
all three such tubes were good when shaken out, as were the other
bronze pieces, and during lunchtime, the first of the drilling
machine patterns came over. I now had a quandary: bronze castings,
or iron.

After
asking Georg for 'scrap' cast iron – he knew of some broken
machinery, and could fetch it tomorrow or the next day – I began
plotting how to actually make the thing. The rack piece still lay
covered in oily rags since I last worked on it, as did the handful of
other forgings, and now that I had casting patterns, I could resume
work on the thing.

The engine
finished up that evening, and as I turned it slowly, I wondered how
to first get some uncorking medicine, and then, how to test the
'paint thinner' for its function under load. I went downstairs just
prior to dinner, and asked Hans.

“I doubt
you are corked,” he said, “so why is it you ask for that stuff?”

“Lubricating
that engine,” I said. “Boiled distillate does not strike me as a
good lubricant. Do you know what is used for those, uh, noisy things
that induce insanity and deafness?”

“They use
some kind of grease,” said Hans, “or so I have heard. They
scatter themselves with some frequency, so it is not likely to be
particularly good.”

Hans
paused, then said, “now what gives with that bad knife you did
recently?'

“It was
an experiment,” I said, “so as to test that metal used by those
people. I've since been working at cleaning it up, as Georg said
that type was liked by butchers.”

“I am not
sure what kind of butchers he was thinking of,” said Hans, “unless
he was thinking of fifth kingdom butchers.”

“Then
what do the ones up here use?” I asked. “I do know those work
passably as cleavers. Should I have made a 'cleaver' instead? I've
seen one of those up here.”

Hans shook
his head, then returned to his grinding. I was wondering what he was
attempting to turn into powder when I saw some obvious 'musket
powder' in a small tinned copper cup.

“Dust-powder?”
I asked. “For jugs?”

“I still
have some of that stuff coming from that witch-hole place,” said
Hans, “and then, the good stuff should arrive soon, that and some
more large vials. I need to have them ready for when those people
decide to show.”

I was able
to get a cupful of uncorking medicine, and as I began to carefully
load it into the engine's sump with a funnel, I noted not merely the
oily nature of the 'paint thinner' – I had noted that before –
but also, possible improvements.

“Nine
parts of this, two of that fourth kingdom grease, and one of tallow,”
I thought, “then careful cooking for a period of time, followed by
straining. I wonder if I can do that at the shop?”

I did so
the next day. Georg was gone, and as I worked on the usual things –
the backlog wasn't shrinking; it was growing, if anything – I
thought about the castings I would need to do for the drilling
machine.

The
end of the week supervened, however. While there was no wooding,
there were ample things to do at home, and on Monday, I was surprised
to find a sizable pile of broken-up cast-iron scrap. I now had to do
some substantial plotting so as to make the largest casting. I
suspected a larger crucible was in order, and asked Georg.

“That
would be an easy thing to do,” he said. “I hope you can handle
it.”

“Uh, no
help?” I asked.

“It was
bad enough with you getting burned by that rivet,” said Georg.
“Assuming anyone in here wanted to help, they'd most likely get
burned to death if they tried. I know I've learned more about this
work since you came than during the whole of my seven years as an
apprentice.”

While I
knew I could handle the smaller castings unaided, when I indicated
the size of crucible I would need for the large casting, Georg shook
his head, then said, “that one will need two people. I
think you'd best try teaching Johannes or Gelbhaar how to do their
portion without being turned to charcoal.”

Over the
next two days, I rammed up and poured the various small 'iron'
castings, and with each such day, I stayed behind watching for fires
in an uncommonly warm shop.

The third
day of the week, Georg left to fetch the 'large' crucibles, and while
he was gone, I cooked the various small castings in a forge that I
otherwise used for annealing copper between raising 'rounds'. During
a break, I wondered as to where the distilleries had gone.

“Hans
came and picked up two of them,” said Johannes, “and that one man
picked up the third.”

“Two of
them?” I asked. “Did he say why?”

While
Johannes did not know, Hans spoke of the matter that evening.

“One of
those things went to Paul,” he said, “and the other went to Korn.
I put up the balance of the money so they should be paying me back
as they are able.”

Hans
paused, then said, “and I hope you can make another of those things
soon, as Maarten tells me he could use one.”

I'd best be
making those in numbers, then,” I said. “How soon will you be
paid back?”

“I've
been able to sell nearly half of the aquavit we make,” said Hans,
“and I get a good price for the stuff. Paul will be able to run
three times what he does with the same work, and get more for all he
does, so he should be able to pay me off quickly. Korn might take a
bit longer.”

“He might
not,” said Anna. “He tends to sell over a much wider area.”

Forging the
'ring shank' and 'come-out tongs' took much of the next day, along
with checking the powdered coal that the apprentices were 'grinding'
in a hollowed-out section of log. I was glad I didn't need much for
each such run, and when the others left that day, I followed them to
the door.

The black
clouds overhead foretold of something unusual, and when I came home,
Anna spoke of it.

“I think
it is going to rain,” she said. “The snow will be mostly gone in
a hurry if it does.”

The next
morning, however, I nearly fell three times on the slippery slush
that had replaced the hard-packed snow, and the squelching sound of
soggy footwear was a given. The cold that was now entering the shop
along with the furtive drips here and there seemed a matter for coal
in the furnace and pouring iron. I began ramming up the big piece
once everyone had arrived.

Ramming a
casting that promised to be over two feet tall and nearly eight
inches wide in places was a recipe for a nightmare, and when I began
loading up the large crucible with its charge, I thought to use some
of the pieces of 'Norden-scrap' that I had set aside.

While the
stuff had been going back to the rear steadily to form wide straggly
rust-streaked mounds, it had continued coming daily, and by now, I
had nearly ten pages of notes and drawings. I then thought to ask
about that one knife I had forged for an experiment.

“Augustus
hopes you can make more of them,” said Georg, “those and the
usual cleavers.”

“Who's
Augustus?” I asked.

“The
publican,” said Georg. “Getting that type of knife up here isn't
easy, and finding a good one is nearly impossible.”

“Hans
implied those were common in the fifth kingdom,” I said.

“They are
common down there,” said Georg, “but most of those tend to either
be poorly made or used by people I'd just as soon not get too close
to. There are ones like them made in the fourth kingdom which are
much better, but those tend to be scarce, and expensive when they can
be found.”

The
crucible took some doing to load into the oven, and after a fresh
load of charcoal and two scoops of powdered coal, I resumed my work
on the other things on 'the list'. Georg had somehow acquired a
'shelf' that held a number of slates like books, and the 'in-process'
orders now went horizontally instead of vertically. There were still
stacks of slates on Georg's desk.

Pouring the
crucible went easier than expected, as the size of the thing meant I
could get it out with the come-out tongs, skim the slag, then ask one
of the men to pick up the 'rod' end of the shank while I picked up
the 'crossed end'. The extent of what Johannes needed to do was
'lift' when I told him to, walk where I indicated, and then hold
reasonably steady while I did the actual pouring. Once done, he
wobbled over to the nearest jug of beer and began draining the thing,
while I cleaned up the 'mess'.

The steady
patter on the roof was calming to hear, and when the others left for
the day, I lit my student's lantern and resumed work on the drilling
machine and my other assignments.

Carrying a
bag of tricks amid 'slush' wasn't the easiest thing to do, and once
home, I not merely needed to dry my shoes, but also clean them. The
ground still showed a great deal of snow, but I suspected 'thaw'
would happen very quickly – as would the training. I needed to
finish the drilling machine beforehand, and I needed to finish the
bathroom drawings as well.

The days
passed in a series of overcast gray periods bookended by the darkness
of night, and each day, I worked longer than the day before. There
were bushings to turn, shafts to hone, drawings for various wooden
parts, special tools to harden, and finally, the various parts
needing to be fitted one to another.

That was
the most critical portion, with careful filing and chiseling needed,
followed by scraping. All of the practice that I had had with tools
and machinery prior now came to the fore, and as I fitted the ram and
tested the gears, I was glad for bluing that did not make an unholy
mess.

I came home
one evening to find Anna working on the belt, and as I looked at it
closely, I noticed it had but a small amount of work remaining. I
then bathed, and upon returning, Anna said, “that training starts
very soon.”

“How
soon?” I asked.

“Most
likely at the beginning of the coming week,” said Anna. “What is
that machine you've been working on there?”

“A
drilling machine,” I said. “I'll need it to make the sextant, as
well as more equipment. Has anyone asked questions about it?”

“Mostly
as to what it is,” said Anna. “I've seen things like it in the
fourth kingdom, but they aren't common save at a few places.”

Anna
paused, then said, “now which of those things gets that engine?”

“At this
time, the buffing wheel,” I said, “but if that drilling machine
needs power, I'll make it so it can be belted to that engine also.”

At night, I
turned and threaded bolts and pins for the thing, and during the day,
I fitted parts. I left the castings 'rough' when and where I could,
thinking that I could 'clean them up' at a latter date. However,
there was another reason: the castings had come out fairly smooth.
They were almost the antithesis of those used for the fifth kingdom
machines, and the dark gray color seemed passable for appearance
after wiping it twice with drying oil.

Finally,
the machine was done. It was lunchtime, it was Friday, I was tired,
and as I turned the crank of the thing, I felt reminded of an old
coffee mill. The whirring of the gears and the steady 'ticking'
noise made by the belt splice conjured pictures of a grandfather
clock, and finally, the steady rotation of the spindle spoke of a
machinist's worst nightmares – as this thing had no play anywhere,
and exuded a palpable aura of precision.

“Now how
is that one used?” asked Georg.

“One uses
this wrench here to tighten the chuck on the drill,” I said, “and
then while someone else turns the crank, you drill holes.”

“Why does
someone else need to turn the crank?” asked Gelbhaar.

“Even my
arms aren't long enough to reach that crank and direct the
drill-bit,” I said. “Besides, I have something planned fairly
soon for a source of power.”